


Baby Grand

by pumpkinfoxes (100xGrounder)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Flintwood, Harry Potter - Freeform, M/M, autumn prompt, music academy au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 20:54:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8637688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100xGrounder/pseuds/pumpkinfoxes
Summary: in which oliver is a piano prodigy and marcus comes to see him play





	

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for the [slytherdor autumn challenge](http://slytherdornet.tumblr.com/post/152612443230/hello-everyone-the-air-is-crisp-and-the-leaves) on tumblr.  
> this fic was inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3_GTxBP7t5o).

Symphonies are spilling from his lungs.

Silent sonatas are torn from his fingertips.

The music is a part of him; clean, sharp notes ascending up the black and white silky staircase of the piano. His playing is pristine, unblemished, centered on nothing but perfection.

The dome theater echoes the low-pitched song like a heartbeat of someone very important resting on their deathbed.

Oliver sits uncomfortably on the glossy black marble bench in front of the piano and tries adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket sleeves without messing up the song. The hem itches and causes him to fidget and he’s too nervous too anxious too artless in all his movements. The crowd is silent and he realizes he’s played too high of a note.

Timing, he reminds himself. That’s all that matters. He takes a deep breath. The whole audience is expecting a masterpiece, and rightly so. He’s trained by the most esteemed musical honorary society in Europe, top of his class, performing since he was eleven.

But it isn’t timing that’s ruining the performance. He’s breaking the melody, shattering the entire song, it’s starting to sound eery, like a lullaby from the 50s. Something is off.

His long fingers begin to cramp as they stretch in determination to finish the piece. _Don’t ruin it,_ he repeats to himself. But he begins wishing he could just stop the performance altogether. The judges will take points off for this, the crowd looks disappointed, his coach has already gone home.

His veins feel delicate as he presses the pad of his thumb to the edge of the highest key, his eyebrows furrow in agony as he realizes he’s played the wrong note once again.

He bites his lip and tries to remember the way the song sounded on his iPod that morning. The soft, crisp notes; how raw the subtle playfulness of it had been—nothing like this at all. He’s butchering the glissandos with every movement he makes.

 _No more,_ he begs the satiny parlour grand beauty; _no more,_ he begs the strange concert-goers staring back at him with awe and confusion; _no more,_ he screams within the deepest, most hollow parts of his bones.

But then—

 _More_ , he hears one voice at the front of the crowd whisper to him.

It’s Marcus.

And his guile, self-asserting, resting bitch face has somehow transformed into an encouraging one, almost like pity. He’s griping the edges of his seat and his knuckles have turned white and Oliver is straining to see him behind the darkness of the theater. The spotlight is blinding and he barely manages to continue playing.

This is not like him; to be here, to be uplifting.

What bothers him though—

Is that you would not expect such a tall, stone-eyed and broad-shouldered man to be a musician. And you would never expect him to play such an instrument like the harp.

It is the music of angels, he thinks to himself.

No, Marcus is more the type to rip wings off dragonflies in his spare time, violent in everything that he does. He sleeps all day and smells of musty old notebooks and pine needles and he’s always late to class, sometimes not even bothering to show up. Their professors despise the way he’s able to pull out beautiful chef-d’oeuvre from absolutely no where.

He's disrespectful, he doesn’t read the music sheets, he goes off completely on his own.

No, Marcus isn’t an angel at all.

You would not expect him to play so gracefully either, pulling the audience into a trance, fabricating paradises between fingertips and golden strings. You would not expect a man like him to _enjoy_ playing the harp, completely unhinging himself in front of a crowd to portray such passion and love—no—this is not love . . .

Protection, yes. He lays a blanket of armor over the large crowd. He takes them on a journey, lets them ride in his pocket through a world of safety and wonder.

He loves doing this and god, is he good at it. When he plays you can see golden music notes floating above him (white and gold) (milk and honey) (purity and sweetness).

And Oliver thinks of those scarce moments when he’s watched him play. They inspire him; enliven him; _challenge_ him.

Marcus Flint; both a friend and enemy. Antagonist and comforter. Inspiration and yet the cause of his inevitable doom.

Because when he plays his piano he turns into a monster but when Marcus plays the harp he transforms into the cosmos itself, he becomes galaxies and travels past exploding stars with each charmingly beautiful sound. He is the universe being reborn.

He is autumn leaves collapsing to the dusty earth to fuel next springs’ childish love affairs. He is the first day of school and the last hour of sunlight. He is the one who brings hot chocolate to you in class when it’s cold and rainy outside.

He is the one who challenges you to see who’s stronger or who can pin the other to the ground faster, not caring if his instructors say he should be protecting his hands for the sake of being a harpist.

He is the one covered in mud and smelling of cedar and acorns and what Oliver imagines heaven must smell like.

He is rebellious and muscular and tough but deep down Oliver knows he has a soft side; the harpist side.

He’s afraid of the ocean and small spaces and long words like alexithymia. He makes fun of Oliver for owning a box full of vanilla scented candles because "vanilla isn’t a _manly_ scent" meanwhile he hides a drawer full of apple and pomegranate scented body lotions.

And he is, if anything, an intimidation; to the weaklings, to the musicians, to the adorers. 

He’s completely rotten-looking from the outside but if you ever dared look inside his dark irises, searching for his truth, looking to create loneliness in his soul . . . 

You would not expect what you would find.

You would not expect him to be present for Oliver’s performance, let alone urging him on.

Once he’s finished the rather awful piano piece the audience seems contemplative, confused, displeased with the young prodigy but also probably glad it’s over. They all clap—calmly, politely, disappointedly—he takes a bow and walks off stage.

He buries his face in his palms. The sound was off, the timing was off, the motive was bare and empty.

But _him._

The question Oliver can’t get off his mind is why Marcus is here for him? He's always told him how badly he plays, how much room there is for improvement; it’s always the harp sounds softer, the harp sounds richer, the harp is better better better.

One time Marcus even tampered with Oliver’s piano keys so that the high and low keys were all mixed up and he had to work all night trying to repair it.

He remembers doing the same to his harp the next day and the both of them getting detention, having to rake leaves off the school property all afternoon together.

"Didn’t know you were giving up your career so soon," he suddenly hears a familiarly deep and coarse voice offer from the doorway of his dressing room. "No really I think I’ve seen zoo animals play music better than that."

"What do you want?," Oliver replies, slightly more annoyed now that he's actually here in the room.

"Perhaps some better competition?" He sneers. "You looked so lost up there you couldn’t even recall how to _spell_ Beethoven." He sits down on a vintage-looking theater prop-like chair that looks like it could’ve been a part of some cheap Romeo  & Juliet reproduction. 

"I was distracted," he says, crossing his arms and making the thick fabric of his suit wrinkle at the elbows. "My jacket hem was . . . itchy."

"Your jacket hem? God, Oliver, you’d think a so-called child prodigy would learn to get past that kind of stuff," he mocks.

"It wasn’t just that," Oliver defends, stepping forward.

"Oh no, was your shoelace untied too?" He smirks, raising his eyebrows and Oliver grits his teeth.

"Why were you here tonight?" He says a little too loudly. "You’ve never come to a single competition of mine in all of the six years we’ve gone to school together, the same classes, the same instructors . . ."

"What now I’m the reason you can’t play anymore? Is my godly presence throwing you off? Do you need me to step out of the room?" He stands and begins walking to the door when suddenly Oliver grabs him by his shirt collar.

" _Why_ are you here?" He demands, voice soft and weighted down with uncertainties bigger than Kansas tornadoes. The sound of piano playing next door ends, the crowd applauds. There is silence—raw, deafening silence.

Marcus looks him up and down, he considers saying something, changes his mind, then shoves Oliver off of him. He forces out a breath like a winter storm, heavy and full with dread. He presses his lips together; thinking, guessing, deflecting time.

"I got expelled." His voice is rough and raspy and he can barely get out the last word. He slumps his back against the ugly pink floral wallpaper and thrusts his hands in his pockets.

Oliver takes a step back from him and considers this for a moment. His face is empty of all emotion, but he looks hurt somehow—cheated. It bothers Marcus; worries him more than anything else. 

"You’re getting kicked out?" He whispers, confused and quite frankly shocked. "How much do they want? To just forget the whole thing," he demands. "What’s their price?"

"I didn’t ask for you help, Wood," he scoffs. "And for god’s sake would you just stop acting like your rich?"

"I can talk to them, we can make a deal with them, you’re their favorite musician, you’re _everyone’s_ favorite musician."

"Not anymore."

"You’re not leaving." He shakes his head and clenches his fist behind his back. "Besides," He laughs and tries not to look angry. "What am I supposed to do without a rival?"

"Thrive?" Marcus says flatly, looking to the door, looking for a way out.

He can’t stand to be in the room any longer or he might do something stupid like cry or worse, smile. Fake and pretend like always. 

And Oliver. 

Oliver never loses. He is determined and vigorous in competition and dead set on not losing what he needs—what he loves. No, he will not lose this time.

Marcus reaches to the cold metal doorknob but is stopped by Oliver’s hand.

"No, don’t go," he says, quickly. "Not . . . Not yet."

And there’s a long pause—not long enough.

Marcus doesn’t bother to move his hand away.

"I’m playing at a coffeehouse in Dublin this winter," He states, hoping this is what Oliver wanted to hear.

"A coffeehouse?" His voice goes high. "What coffeehouse hires a harpist?"

"Remember the one we used to go to first year? You know, the one where we’d get those chai lattes?" He recalls them like little pieces of heaven, pure and young and innocent.

The judges are outside announcing the scores of the semi-final, the voice comes through the monitor, bland and droning.

Oliver comes in eighth.

The soft white noise of the air conditioner echoes above the applause and the _congratulations_ and the _oh wells_ outside and all he can hear is Marcus’ slow breathing and his heartbeat and god, it only reminds him of a metronome.

 _The sound begs to played to._

"It’s your jacket’s fault," Marcus offers, trying to sound comforting.

"Damn hem," he returns, laughing slightly distracted.

And he thinks how much he loves being able to put a smile on Marcus’ face, it’s like lighting a match or watching kindling burn. The warmth of it is enthralling; electrifying.

He feels his cheeks get hot as he thinks about a holiday harp performance—he can already see the lights strung up and the festive pamphlets being handed out, the sound of Marcus playing the celtic harp to most likely some Beatles song and everyone obviously loving him.

What a perfect time for an angel to be playing the harp, he wonders.

Marcus moves closer, wavering, lingering; he touches the tips of his fingers to the inside of Oliver’s jacket hem, trying to remember what he's trying to say.

He laughs and nods, silently, in agreement to the god-awful fabric choice made on Oliver's part.

His gaze travels up to Oliver’s face and the top of his head, the wispy brown hairs. He always could pull off the messy bed-hair look. "Will you come see me play?"

He adds "You know, so I can show you how to put on a _good_ performance?"

Oliver scoffs, rolls his eyes, thinks about coming up with some stupid insult or comeback but instead just nods his head.

"Yeah," he says.

Marcus holds back a smile; a viciously happy kind of smile that is giddy and sordid and all the wrong mix of passions. He leans forward and kisses him—violently; possessively.

And Oliver enjoys it.

He fucking _savours_ it.

He grasps his collar, pulling him closer, daring to bite his lip and kiss his neck and he thinks this can’t possibly be real life but Marcus kisses back.

Like sugar.

Like fire.

Like destruction.

And he can’t recall anything that happens after that except thinking that Marcus kisses like a symphony, like his heart is an orchestra and his lips are instruments and that he wants this song stuck in his head for all of eternity.


End file.
